


Friendly Favors

by chiaroscure



Category: What We Do in the Shadows (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Background Nadja/Laszlo, Background Nandor/Guillermo, Bottom!Nandor, Denial, FWB, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Pining, Top!Laszlo, necking, wrong-naming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26429764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiaroscure/pseuds/chiaroscure
Summary: It is only right that vampire roommates help each other through difficult times. But sometimes, it's not clear which vampire roommate is the one in need of help.
Relationships: Laszlo Cravensworth/Nandor the Relentless
Comments: 17
Kudos: 56





	Friendly Favors

_Knock knock-knock_.

The wooden rapping thrums through the empty air, startling Nandor. Who would want to visit them anymore? Especially so close to morning? He doesn’t really want to get up to answer the front door right now, but door duties have been a point of contention lately in the household, so he waits to hear if anyone else is going to get it.

 _Knock knock-knock_ , again.

He realizes that, actually, it is the door to his crypt being knocked at, not the one to the outside. His responsibility to answer, then. He cracks the door after the first knock in the third attempt to get his attention.

“Oh,” he swings the door more fully open. “Hello, Laszlo.”

“Not interrupting anything, am I?” Laszlo says, stepping inside at his invitation.

“No, I was just…” what _was_ he just doing? Difficult to say. He counters: “Is anything the matter?”

“Had a row with Nadja,” Laszlo replies flippantly, closing the door behind him. Nandor trains his face into an expression of concern; it has been a difficult few weeks for all of them, and he reasons that this would therefore be a more difficult time than normal to get into a fight. Laszlo leans casually against the wall, scanning the room.

“Are you sure I’m not interrupting anything? It looks like a tornado’s been through here.”

Nandor glances at everything behind him too: the box of old letters is open on one of the tables behind him; there is a half-polished dagger beside it; the wardrobe is ajar. He has never seen a room that a tornado has been through, but he has seen a lot of rooms stripped by people fleeing their homes in a panic, and this does look a bit like that.

“No, you are not interrupting anything,” he confirms.

Laszlo turns back to him with a quiet sort of frown, but of course he just said that he has had a fight with Nadja, so the frown is not very surprising. It is gone quickly enough, replaced by a smirk and Laszlo’s fingers slipping under Nandor’s belt, suggesting that he step closer.

“Fancy blowing off a little steam together, then?”

He has no sense whatsoever of whether or not he does fancy that, but the slight tug at his waist feels good, and the promise of touches that follow a familiar choreography, now that it has been presented to him, appeals more than he could have anticipated. Laszlo circles him easily and he lets himself be pressed against his crypt’s door.

The initial moves of these encounters are easier after they’ve been out together than when it’s a fight that prompts Laszlo to come knocking. Nandor always finds the shift from not-this to this to be trickier when he’s not expecting it. Fortunately for him, though, when Laszlo and Nadja have spats, Laszlo knows what he wants, and so Laszlo sets the pace until Nandor’s mood catches up. Laszlo used to take jabs at him for being shy, but they’ve done this enough that they both know how it goes. By now, his uncertainty of what to do with his hands is just a part of the routine.

So he grips the door by the handle and hinges instead of doing any active touching as Laszlo breathes against his neck. He tips his head back encouragingly for Laszlo to nip at his throat, pulling a pleasant shudder from between his teeth. By the time Laszlo starts to palm him through his trousers, he is ready for it and pushes forward into the pressure, his own fingers tightening around his metal handholds.

“What have you and Nadja fought about?” he mutters as Laszlo fumbles with the buttons on his trousers. This is part of the script too: he asks; Laszlo explains while warming them up, and by the time he’s finished talking they’re both eager for what comes next.

“She…hell, I don’t know, does it matter?” Laszlo gets Nandor’s buttons undone and pulls his half-hard cock free. Nandor swallows as a hand wraps solidly around him.

“That is okay if you do not want to…” he stifles a whine as Laszlo flicks his thumb cleverly at the top of a teasing stroke, “…if you don’t want to talk about it. But if you — if you do….”

“Oh just something or other, I’m sure. She’ll be over it soon — or I will, whichever of us is upset; I can’t remember what we said.”

“That sounds very complicated,” Nandor says shakily, trying to sound sympathetic despite the distraction of Laszlo taking them both into his hand together. Typically when Laszlo struggles to describe the problem it is because he has gotten especially upset.

“It’s not,” he replies, not sounding very upset at all.

Laszlo crowds closer to him, undoing the buckle of his belt and deftly loosening their outer garments as he rocks his hips in a slow rhythm. It feels good; the press of Laszlo’s knuckles against his chest are comfortingly methodical. He curses when he gets stuck on a button, but that’s alright — actually, Nandor would prefer it if he continued to grouse about the buttons: typically he’s still talking by the time they get here, so even half-comprehensible grumbling is a reassurance of the course they’re on. His usual chatter diverts Nandor’s mind while his body settles into being touched like this. He almost tries again to prompt Laszlo to explain whatever happened, but if his friend doesn’t want to talk about it, then he won’t push it. He doesn’t want to be a mood killer.

A fang scrapes lightly over the skin under Nandor’s jaw, and he has to clench his teeth to keep from mewling embarrassingly.

“Quiet tonight, aren’t we?” Laszlo smirks against his neck, as if he’s not the one who has been unusually silent. He scratches him with the fang again, not quite enough to part the skin, and again Nandor has to try hard not to cry out.

The interruption kicks Nandor into realizing that Laszlo should have made a move to get to the next part by now. It is a testament to how shaken up the ordinary household patterns have been for the last couple of weeks that he would have forgotten his role here. With a twinge of lust-coated pity, Nandor takes it upon himself to remind his friend of how this is supposed to work.

He pushes him back so that he can walk forward, attempting to kick his boots off while also dragging Laszlo over to the sturdy table against the wall nearby. The result is less seductive than he might have hoped: the boots are hard to get off at the best of times, and he trips over a _different_ boot he forgot to put away whenever it was that he last wore it. He ends up grabbing Laszlo’s arm to keep himself upright, which, he knows from past experience, is not a very sultry move. The indignity is made worse by the half-nakedness. He grimaces but does manage at least to make it to the table without further setbacks.

As he follows, Laszlo sidesteps a blood-strained shirt that is also left over from whenever Nandor forgot to pick it up (although probably from a different night from the in-the-way boot? he’s not sure). Nandor does not miss the way Laszlo’s attention lingers on the clutter on the floor even as he helps strip Nandor of his trousers.

A bleak emptiness akin to shame settles somewhere between Nandor’s lungs; for a moment he wants to tell Laszlo to leave, that he’s not in the mood for this right now after all. But Laszlo drops the breeches next to the shirt with a flourish and it’s a little sexy, maybe, so he decides to carry on.

Laszlo attaches himself to his throat again and runs his hands up his thighs, fingers trailing on distinct, tingling paths. He settles himself to stand between Nandor’s legs and wraps a hand around their cocks, jerking them together with slow, purposeful strokes.

Again, Nandor wishes Laszlo was talking; his thoughts keep swirling around perilously close to whatever is still keeping him from returning Laszlo touches, and settling instead on what his friends might have argued about. He still doesn’t want to ask; he just wishes Laszlo would tell him so that he could stop wondering. Because if it’s something, then it’s something, but if it’s nothing, then it’s the theater, and he really, really doesn’t want to be thinking about that right now.

And he can’t figure out why Laszlo is being so _slow_ about this, either. When Laszlo comes to him after a problem with Nadja, it always goes pretty much the same way, with Laszlo taking the lead undressing him, touching him, preparing him, fucking him, and getting them both off. What is happening tonight is more the way things go when they’ve been hunting at bars and just need to rut against each other to let off energy. Laszlo must be in a bad state to have such a lapse of memory about how this is supposed to go, which is understandable, but Nandor wishes he would get on with it. To remind him again of the correct next action, Nandor gropes around on the table for the bottle of lubricant and presses it into Laszlo’s hand.

Laszlo pulls back to look at him with more surprise than seems warranted for a predictable course-correction.

“Yeah?” he asks incredulously, but he pours out a generous amount and shrugs. “Alright, whatever you’d like.”

Nandor doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but there isn’t a lot of time to think about it before Laszlo has slipped a finger into him up to the knuckle in one go. He cracks his head loudly against the wall and swears, the combination of both pleasure-pain sensations in such close succession rattling his thoughts out of his head dizzily. He spreads his thighs farther to allow Laszlo’s finger to delve in and out of him, twisting and curling just right to take him apart.

“More,” he grits out, probably too soon. Just making up for lost time. Chasing the diversion to his attention. Laszlo hesitates but goes along with it, adding another finger. Again, his head hits the wall with a snap in response to the welcome stretch that is almost too much.

He growls low, teeth grinding together to lock any other sounds back in his throat. Laszlo is the way Laszlo is about this; somewhere between smoothly rough and roughly smooth, the balance of pleasure and pain practiced to perfection thanks to his centuries of lascivious habits. He strokes Nandor from the inside with fingers like butter, thumb massaging from the outside and keeping Nandor from moving around too much as he works. He cuts his fingers apart suddenly and again it’s almost more than it should be, but it’s sharp and _good_ too. His cock remains ignored for the moment; Laszlo is using his other hand is holding him in place by the hip and Nandor still can’t quite bring himself touch the unwarm space between them, so he grips the carved edges of the table instead.

This part doesn’t last long. It doesn’t usually — although usually Laszlo is in a state of impatience to match Nandor’s by now. Tonight, his method is the same, but he seems more focused on it — or more focused on Nandor, anyway. Laszlo’s left hand slips away from where it has been bracing Nandor in order to give his own cock a few pumps in preparation. He pulls the fingers of his right hand free to spread what lubricant remained on them over himself before lining up and pushing slowly in.

Nandor has had his knees raised up, feet free floating, but as Laszlo’s tip breeches him he looks for purchase around his friend’s waist. He tries to yank Laszlo forward in one go, but Laszlo stops him.

“Settle down,” he says, voice steady though his pupils at least have the decency to be blown wide. “If you’re looking to get hurt, you’ll have to find somebody else to do it.”

Nandor tries not to glare; Laszlo doesn’t need both him _and_ Nadja angry with him at the same time. Instead, he digs his nails harder into the table until it starts to splinter and allows Laszlo to take his time, every odd ridge of his leprosic cock introducing itself on the way. Normally he appreciates the sensation, but tonight he’d rather not be so keenly aware of it. It’s not bad, though; he has to bite his own lip to keep from groaning until Laszlo’s hips dig into the backs of his own thighs.

Laszlo gives him a moment to acclimate, taking the opportunity to adjust his legs around him to improve both their leverage. Mindful not to push his luck (this is first and foremost for Laszlo’s consolation, after all, and he just said he wasn’t in the mood for anything rough), he doesn’t encourage Laszlo to move until he has held still, chest heaving and eyes screwed shut, feeling the pressure inside him and the surprisingly considerate way Laszlo is holding his legs. He breathes through his nose a few times, wary of opening his mouth, and, after he thinks his body is _actually_ ready, he nods.

He wasn’t sure he was in the mood for this, especially with how Laszlo has been acting about it, but now that he’s here, he’s glad he’s gone along with it. Laszlo sets the rhythm and it puts a stop to the uneasy buzzing his mind has been doing for the last…while. The only thing at his mind now is is how quiet it still is in his crypt, with nothing but the sound of slick skin and heavy breathing to break the silence. While Laszlo has usually long finished with talking by this point, he has almost always started in on vague vocalizations, unintelligible for the most part but including names starting in _Na-_ and ending in one of two ways interchangeably.

Something touches Nandor’s lip, and he opens his eyes in time to watch Laszlo licking a drop of blood off his fingertip with an expression he is in no state to interpret.

“Awfully determined to keep quiet tonight, aren’t you?” Laszlo pants, not stopping his thrusts, though his eyes flick meaningfully to Nandor’s mouth. “Why’s that?”

It is true that half of the silence is his own fault; normally he can be pretty vocal. But that does not feel like a good idea right now. So Nandor just clenches his teeth harder and slams Laszlo into himself harshly with his legs, making only a muffled whine as he does so. Punctuating his resolve.

The pace picks up after that. He’s glad that Laszlo loses the restraint he has inexplicably held onto for this long, moaning low in his throat when there are again fangs at the sensitive scars under his jaw. Soon fingers twist in his hair as hips slam into his. Laszlo always likes touching his hair, running his hands through it as if through silk, and Nandor relishes the attention.

With one hand he scrambles for a better grip on the table as Laszlo sucks harder at his neck. There is an unexpected tug on his hair, his fingers caught in a knot behind Nandor’s ear, and Nandor’s searching hand clutches around the polished metal handle of the brush he hasn’t picked up in a week. Laszlo curses an annoyed apology, but it is only half audible under the sound of Nandor moaning through the gag of his own closed lips. Nandor stabs the handle of the brush into the table top hard enough that it will probably dent, and he cringes at that for a moment before remembering that it doesn’t matter much anyway; the crypt is already so ruined that one dent in a piece of furniture he’s had since he moved in won’t make much difference, and rips his nails through the finish on his other side.

He can’t keep the noises back anymore after that, though he stubbornly will not unlock his jaw. Spurred on by the strangled whines spilling out between them within increasing frequency, Laszlo breathes a laugh and pumps into him with almost punishing force. He’s getting close, they both are; he wants to tell Laszlo, but he can’t open his mouth to say it. Luckily, this seems to be obvious enough that Laszlo takes hold of his cock and starts working him with a deliberateness he wouldn’t have expected, if he was expecting anything anymore. He drops the brush and smashes the heel of his palm to his mouth as he hurdles perilously close to the edge.

“You can call me whatever you like,” Laszlo growls into his neck, “I don’t care.”

 _I don’t know what that is supposed to mean,_ he intends to say, but when he opens his mouth he can’t get the words out before he comes hard, a strangled “ _Guille—_ ” that he couldn’t _quite_ bite back caught in his throat.

His vision goes dark-white for a second, pleasure and shame rattling through his skull like a blow to the helmet. By the time his senses return to him, he is clinging to Laszlo’s shoulders as Laszlo shudders through his own completion. He notices that his lip stings from where he tore through it trying to keep quiet, but almost as soon as the thought comes to him the cut is stitching itself over.

Laszlo untangles them carefully. Nandor remains pliant but unhelpful on the table, as if not engaging will somehow keep Laszlo from noticing that he is still there. Laszlo glances around for a moment but, evidently not finding what he is searching for, bends to retrieve the discarded blood-stained shirt from earlier to wipe himself down with before handing it over to Nandor.

“You might consider tidying up a bit in here,” he says, “whether he’s coming back or not.”

Nandor’s grip tightens on the shirt. He locks his eyes on the floor in front of him. After a moment, Laszlo’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder. He does not react.

“What was your fight with Nadja about?” Nandor asks again. Just to have something to say.

The crypt is too quiet again in the pause while he waits for an answer. Laszlo sighs.

“Nandor…”

He cringes at Laszlo’s tone.

“What you’ve got going on here’s nothing to get embarrassed over.”

He does glare now, but Laszlo just gives his shoulder a bracing squeeze.

“We both ought to retire for the day; it’s nearly dawn. Let me know if you would find it useful for my wife and I to have another row. Any time, at your convenience.” He gives him a last pat on the back. “Get some rest, chap.”

Laszlo steps away and straightens his clothes. The door clicks behind him when he lets himself out. Nandor inspects his own claw marks in the table that will have to be refinished now, still clinging to the shirt that _should_ be a towel that he _should_ be using to clean himself up.

He makes a half-spirited attempt at hygiene, but doesn’t make much progress dressing again. It was a nice thought. It is good to have friends who care about him. He doesn’t think he’s likely to take Laszlo up on the offer, but he clings to the comfort of knowing that he would make such a gesture, even if it only makes him all the more embarrassed for being so transparent. He doesn’t want anyone to know. _He_ doesn’t even want to know. He just wants to wait until he is over it without anybody noticing. Humans don’t live that long; he should have been able to hide away for a few years until he settles down.

He seals himself away in his coffin and waits to fall asleep, wishing he had managed to keep his mouth shut for just a second longer.

**Author's Note:**

> _*quietly waves a little "I Heart Laszlo Cravensworth" flag*_


End file.
